Broken Frames
by hyacinthian
Summary: And these are the clippets of their life. The defining moments of everything. [SamAinsley drabbles]
1. i

A/N: I have decided to challenge myself and take a box of prompts for some fic or another from an LJ community and use those prompts as drabble prompts. There are 95. And this is the first drabble. The title of the drabble is the prompt itself. For further reference. And these are all Sam/Ainsley. I'll try and update every day, but no promises.

* * *

_i. Beginnings _

The sun was shining, birds were chirping. Sam Seaborn was on top of the world. At least, in terms of television. He had killed—completely humiliated—several political analysts on Capitol Beat, and he was unstoppable. Invincible. He was almost beaming when he entered. Almost. When he finally sat down in the chair, allowing for swarms of people to apply goopy make-up onto his face to prevent him from looking pale on television, he saw her. Blonde, blue-eyed, beautiful. She flashes him a grin, cheerful. He extends a hand. "Sam Seaborn." She pauses a second. Her name is Ainsley Hayes.


	2. ii

_ii. Middles _

He stands there with her in his office, both of them yelling at each other. The rest of the Communications Bullpen has since learned to ignore angry, screaming women in Sam's office. There appears to be quite a lot of them. He runs a hand through his hair, and continues to fight this losing battle. He's saying something about the equal rights amendment and the second amendment and something about a militia when she does it. Just grabs him and pulls him in for a kiss. It's slow, sweet. He'll surrender more often if she keeps kissing him like that.


	3. iii

_iii. Ends _

She walks into his office, clicks giving her away. He looks up at her and notes the changes that have occurred in her. She looks tired, drawn. Her skin is no longer flawless and her eyes no longer hold the perky happiness that she used to own in such abundance. She throws the thick stack of papers onto the desk. They're both lawyers, but he doesn't want to do this anymore. Neither does she. He grabs the pen and just signs his name. He tries to ignore the sight of her tears when she sets the ring on his desk.


	4. iv

_iv. First _

The golden rays plow through the weak curtains to wake her. Her eyes slowly open, blinking a few times to focus the blurry image that greets her. She shifts lazily beneath the sheets, savoring the feel of them sliding over her skin. She hears snoring, and rolls a little bit to rest on his lap. She smiles and kisses his cheek and neck. He still sleeps. Pouting a bit, she hits his arm. Perhaps a bit too hard. He shakes awake, and groans a bit. He mumbles something about violence and she laughs. She doesn't remember ever being this happy.


	5. v

_v. Last _

She's driving on the highway, white dashes flickering through her peripheral vision as she's trying to forget him. Trying to forget that she's leaving him, leaving the one place that she always wanted to work--simply because she feels like an outcast. She's never been one to run from her problems, but she's doing it now. And she's a Republican. Who worked in a Democratic White House. She's a box of oxymorons. She's too dazed to focus on anything right now. A loud horn. The sound of metal collapsing on itself. A white light. And then? Silence. Nothingness. Lingering death.


	6. vi

A/N: I don't know if I really made this clear, or if I explained it oddly. Each chapter is a separate story. All the chapters are _unrelated._ So...if Ainsley dies one chapter, she'll be back in another. Did that help at all? And, this chapter, the title kind of applies. If it's not really all that obvious, the "hours" thing fits because Ainsley's waiting. For food.

* * *

_vi. Hours_

Bright blue eyes darting to and fro. A foot tapping against the leg of the table. Tap tap tap tap. Frustrated brown eyes gliding up to meet anxious blue ones.

"Saaaaaaaaam." The vaguest hint of a whine present within her voice. Weariness hiding behind eyes, skimming words on paper. "Sam." Short, concise. She begins to drum her fingernails against the table. Click click click click click.

"Ainsley," he grumbles. Quick, frantic, staccato clicks. Click click. Click click. He sighs. She stops.

"Saaaaaaam." He looks up.

"What?"

"You have to feed me, you know."

"I know." He waves for the waiter.


	7. vii

_vii. Days_

He's been a bit on edge lately. Well, more so than usual. He sits at his laptop for hours, the fluorescent glow making his eyes water and sting. He rubs at his eyes, and runs a hand through his hair, a mug of coffee settled next to his laptop. This is so unhealthy.

He walks toward the mess, trying to grab a muffin. Josh stands in the way. Between him and a banana nut muffin. Oh, Josh. You idiot. Get out of the way.

His cell phone rings. "Hello? Ainsley? Hey!" He eyes Josh's smirk. Talk now, beat Josh later.


	8. viii

_viii. Weeks_

It comes in the mail today. You reach for his hand, yours too shaky to even take it out of the mailbox. He smiles indulgently at you, and you hold the envelope in your hand as he holds the door open for you.

You've changed, certainly. The skin over your cheekbones is a little bit tighter, and you look more worn than recently, but you still look healthy. You're still cheerful, optimistic. You've been waiting weeks for these damn results.

You open it. Your eyes scan the paper, dull and lackluster. You hand him the paper and sob softly.

Cancer.


	9. ix

_ix. Months _

She eats her tuna fish sandwich with the clam chowder, trying not to focus on the contents. She takes a bite. And swallows. All she does is eat anymore. Eat, eat, eat. And the occasional soap opera. She takes another bite, and eyes him across the table. He's writing a speech.

"I blame you." He smiles, and tips his head in a nod. "No, seriously."

She gets up, and feels the pains in her stomach, glaring at him. She groans with pain, and his eyes flick over to her, concerned.

"Sam. It's time to go." Finally. She grimaces. It's here.


	10. x

_x. Years_

She's waited so long for this moment. Swathed in white tulle, like an angel. Her blonde hair is done up, and curled, and her dress practically drips off of her, it melds to her skin so well. Her bouquet is made up of roses, carnations. It's simple. Because they're simple. She's trying not to cry when she loops her arm with her daddy's. Somehow, they manage to shuffle over to the door. She pauses as the large wooden doors begin to open. She hears a slight whoosh as people collectively stand, and the organ begins to play. And he's there.


	11. xi

_xi. Red_

When he was four, he was taught his primary colors. Red, yellow, blue. Fast forward several decades, and he's standing at the door of her apartment, red roses in hand, his gaze shifting from cerulean blue wall to cerulean blue wall. She opens the door, and he is captivated. Blood red dress conforming to her body's every curve, a curtain of golden hair falling on bare shoulders, blue eyes full of warmth. He wants to kiss her, but takes her to the White House instead. Perhaps it's just good use of foreshadowing. He pulls her to dance with him instead.


	12. xii

_xii. Grey _(spelled incorrectly because it's prettier that way!)

Sam looked at the clock. 9:57. Should he call her? Now? It was incredibly late. But they hadn't been on speaking terms lately. Not since the argument. And he was sure it was time to make amends. After all…he did really care for her. Just things being blown out of proportion. He lifted the phone and dialed her number. He heard it ring, felt the familiar anxiety in his bones. A click as the phone was picked up. "Hello?" A man's voice. He felt his breaths shorten, felt his heartbeat quicken. Felt his heart break. He wanted to kill him.


	13. xiii

A/N: Sorry this took so long! It took me FO-EVAH to figure out what to put for "white." Very, very difficult._  
_

_xiii. White_

He awoke, calloused fingers skimming across alabaster skin. The chill air caused goosebumps to prickle on her skin. She heaved the large white comforter towards her, covering herself in warmth. He laughed, and tried to tug the comforter back. She awoke and sat up immediately, the comforter sliding down, exposing more skin. He kissed her shoulder. She turned on C-Span flicking on with its monotony.

"Ainsley. Turn it off."

She smiled lazily. "Why?"

"Haven't you realized?" She shook her head. "Ainsley, it's snowing." She turned, mouth agape in childhood glee. She turned her head and smiled at quickly blanketing white.


	14. xiv

A/N: For John Spencer.

_xiv. Black_

They sit in the first row, dressed in stark colors. This isn't how they do funerals in California. But California is different. And irrelevant. He rises to pay his respects.

Josh. Donna. CJ. Toby. Countless others.He feels Ainsley grab his hand.

His lips move before he can stop them. One of the few men he respected. One of the few men who cared. Warm tears fall onto his cheeks. He doesn't care.

He begins, and the others follow his lead, all of them weeping, standing to join him. "Andrew Jackson had in his White House a big block of cheese…"


	15. xv

A/N: Sorry I haven't updated in so long. I hope this like multi-chapter post will make up for it?

_xv. Blue_

She's feeling unbelievably free. Perhaps it's the sex. Or the coffee. Or their vacation. She grins, the smile lighting up her entire face, and sets her magazine down for a second to glance out the window, the seamless, unchanging sky blue greeting her darker-hued irises. He comes back to his seat, and sits down, pressing a light kiss on her cheek. She covers his hand with her own, eyes flitting to their matching silver bands. She begins to hum, a soft, sweet melody.

"What are you humming?" She smiles, and decides to sing for him instead.

"Blue moon of Kentucky…"


	16. xvi

_xvi. Purple_

She stares at it, eyes narrowing. "Sam," she says, stifling a laugh. "It's purple."

"It's the beets. They're good for you."

"Beets are red. This is purple."

"It's the color it's supposed to be, all right?"

"Did you add grape juice?"

"Ainsley!" He tries not to smile. "At least I'm feeding you."

"Yes, but eating food that can kill me defeats the purpose."

"It's not going to kill you."

"Sam, have you ever cooked anything in your life before this?"

He pauses in speech, thinking. "Grilled cheese."

"Can we just order out?"

He crinkles his nose at the smell. "Thai?"


	17. xvii

_xvii. Brown_

It's Christmastime, and they're cuddled by the fire, TV on, wine glasses strewn about. Sugar plums and all that. They have a medium-sized tree up, decorated in a beautifully clumsy type of way. She has this habit of waiting until midnight to open gifts. He goes first, and brings her a rectangular-shaped wrapped in lunch bag brown paper. She tears at it, giggling. She pauses, and raises it, questioning eyes. "Ann Coulter Tells It Like It Is?" This was now a delicate situation. "This is my gift? You serious?"

He smiles, runs off, and returns with a brown leather briefcase.


	18. xviii

_xviii. Green_

They go to a state dinner (because they work for the President and they have to) just like always, except this time…he's going with her. Practically a goddess. Aphrodite incarnate. They eat, drink, dance, mingle, insert verb here when suddenly he walks up to them.

"Ainsley! Hey!" He leans in to kiss her amicably. He invites her to dance, smiling smugly at him. She shrugs, smiling, as if to say that she can't do anything about it. His hands ride too low on her hips, and they're too close. He's never wanted to hurt a man more in his life.


	19. xix

_xix. Pink_

She still can't believe he left her. It seems so long ago. She hates this feeling, like she's alone every hour of every day, even when there are people. And she feels like she's running on nothing but the idea of him, of them…she's just hollowed out, a shell. She goes home, and seeks it out. Pours some into her hand.

Two. Four. Seven. Three. The number doesn't really matter anymore. Downs them with anything. Tap water. Coffee. Whiskey. She's stopped caring. She just needs to stop feeling.

Pink. Pretty pink. Like her prom dress.

She just wants to forget.


	20. xx

_xx. Colorless_

They sit in the front row. She's weeping openly, and he's trying not to. It's not right, it's unfair. He'd always been so idealistic, so happy, but now he feels like he could just abandon himself and become a cynic.

It's a pretty box, shiny box. And he thinks that this whole process is unnatural. They're supposed to cry, they're supposed to fling themselves onto the casket, and try to revive him again. He feels devoid of everything and anything. By the way she's clinging to him, he bets she feels the same way.

Matthew would like heaven, he thinks.


	21. xxi

_xxi. Friends_

She spots him in the coffee shop one day, simply browsing the pastry display case.

"Hey, Sam," she greets, before placing an order for a coffee.

He stares at the coffee cake, before deciding to purchase a piece. "Hey."

"What's going on?"

"Nothing really."

"Oh. Well, never knew being on the President's staff was so boring." He laughs. "You going to do it tonight?" He nods, before taking the box out, and showing her the ring.

"You think Lisa will like it?"

She swallows hard. I would. "Yeah," she says, voice quavering. "I think Lisa will love it!" She smiles.


	22. xxii

A/N: Eh. I don't really like this chapter. I have all the drabble prompts written on notepad sheets (like bigger than post-its but smaller than everything else) that are taped onto my monitor. This finishes off the first column. First of four. Anyway, just felt like saying that, we're kind of almost 25 through. smiles weakly Anyway...

_xxii. Enemies_

They haven't spoken to each other civilly in a long time. He wants to blame it on Ann Coulter and the swaying of Congress. She just wants to blame him. But they're both vaguely aware that it's more partisan politics than anything.

It's a few weeks to the election, and they're both going on Capitol Beat.

Together. Against each other.

He's arguing for the Democratic nominee, she's going to try and spear him on a stick. They meet in the make-up room.

"Sam."

"Ainsley."

Curt. Always curt. Short, sweet, steal-your-soul mean. He sighs, wondering what had happened to their friendship.


	23. xxiii

A/N: Oh my God, guys, I'm so sorry for the long update! I really am. But you know how RL is. Just kind of sinks its claws into you and never lets go. You know, there will come a time when all these make-up humongo posts will stop working. But I hope that's not now. And uber-sadness at the show being over.

* * *

_xxiii. Lovers_

"Sam, there's a pink—thing on your desk."

"Pink?" He sat down at his desk, blinking awkwardly, trying to ignore the blatant violation of male law residing on it. His eyes flitted to it while typing, cheeks flushing here and there. He couldn't throw it away. Maybe he could just stuff it in a drawer for now.

"Sam?" Why did Josh have to be so annoying? "Aren't you going to open it and tell us what it says?" Rolling his eyes, he reached for it, opened it, and read it. He blushed.

"Oh, Sam got a wuv wettah, didn't he?"


	24. xxiv

_xxiv. Family_

He stared at his enemy, golden-brown with skin crisped to perfection. His hand shook ever so slightly, and he didn't want to look over at her, knowing that her amused smirk would be set on her face. He sighed. How was this going to work? He stabbed it. Okay. _First step over. Now move your other hand._ But somehow, his hands weren't cooperating with him today. He could hear her humming softly with impatience. He was going to kill her.

"Sam?" she whispered, in a sing-song voice. "You have done this before?"

Yep. He was definitely going to kill her.


	25. xxv

_xxv. Strangers_

He walked down the busy street, watching the falling white flakes with a childlike fascination. Smiling with the joy of winter weather, he completely ignored where he was going, and bumped into someone. She dropped her things. "Oh! I'm so sorry!" He bent down and helped her gather her things. He stood up, and handed them to her, blushing at his clumsiness.

She smiled back. "No problem."

Two hours later and all he can remember are those deep blue eyes. The beautiful blonde hair. Her pink scarf, and white hat. The image of a Christmas angel stranded among the mortals.


	26. xxvi

_xxvi. Teammates_

"Sam?"

"What?"

"Can I have your muffin?"

"What?"

"Can I have your—"

"I heard you, I just wasn't sure if I heard you right. Yeah, go ahead."

"Republicans eat too, you know. Especially cute, young blonde ones who are helping you with your work."

"You can have the muffin."

"Oh, I know. That was just for emphasis."

"You're big on the emphasis, aren't you?"

"I feel it adds a nice finishing touch."

"Right."

"Sam?"

"What?"

"You don't happen to have Fresca, do you?"

"Yeah. Next to that huge panda bear that's hugging the UFO."

"…"

"Hand me that file?"

"…"

"Ow!"


	27. xxvii

_xxvii. Parents_

"Dad?" A teenage girl walked into the Oval Office. "Can you help me with something?" She took a few tentative steps into the room before sitting down in a chair in front of the desk her father was hunched over, signing some papers.

"What do you need?"

"Can you tell me the history of the White House?" Sam Seaborn shut his eyes for a second, remembering the disastrous tour he gave to Mallory's class.

"Maybe you should go ask your mother."

"Mom's in Argentina."

_Crap. Okay. Be smooth._ "She is?"

"Yeah." His daughter raised an eyebrow.

"Go ask Josh."


	28. xxviii

_xxviii. Children_

A man lay on the beach, chattering on his cell phone, while his wife applied sunblock on their sun. He giggled as he stood up, tottering off towards the water, small feet sinking into the sand. He stopped walking when he noticed a castle. Clumsily tottering over, he plopped himself down in the sand, where a little girl with pigtails was adding details with a small, brightly-colored plastic shovel.

"Whatcha doin'?"

"Buildin' a san' castle!" The little girl smiled brightly, revealing two of her teeth which had recently fallen out.

And with a smile, he began to help her build.


	29. xxix

_xxix. Birth_

He holds her in his hands, eyes full of awe and amazement. She seems so small to him, so fragile. His fingertip is the size of her entire hand. He smiles as she coos, falling asleep. He rocks her a bit in his arms.

After countless hours, innumerable screams, and incoherent death threats, here she was. He could hardly believe it. His eyes flitted back and forth between the two, both sleeping peacefully. The first was beautiful and strong, and the other was beautiful and frail. And he was caught in the middle. Right now, he didn't care at all.


	30. xxx

_xxx. Death_

She sits in a stiff-backed plastic chair, eyes sore from crying, voice raw from screaming, but her mind's still too dazed to accept anything she hears. He can't be gone. He just can't. But he's still lying in there, after failed attempts to fix him, and Tin Men can't survive.

He was supposed to change the world. They were going to do it. Together. And now they can't. She can't.

There were too many names, faces, too many people offering condolences and sympathy. She doesn't want any of that. She just wants him back.

At midnight, she finally breaks down.


	31. xxxi

_xxxi. Sunrise_

They've been there for over twenty hours, trying to correct this humongous mistake without actually knowing all of the details because it's been "classified." He yawns when he wakes, trying to stretch out all the kinks in his neck. His watch reads five-something, and he knows that she's still here.

He runs down to the mess, and then down to her office, where he finds her asleep, slumped over her paperwork, blonde hair mussed.

"Are you crazy?" He hands her the hot cup of coffee, and flashes her that grin of his.

"Ever been to the Rose Garden at six?"


	32. xxxii

_xxxii. Sunset_

She's got all of her bags packed, and he's rapidly trying to load them into the trunk. Why do women need so much? Alabaster skin, she replies. He rolls his eyes. If he wasn't such a fervent worshipper of her alabaster skin, he'd say, "To hell with it." He feels like an outlaw. She sits down in the passenger seat, and looks into his eyes.

"Desperado?" she whispers, smiling. He starts the car. His mind flashes to work for a second, but he figures he should actually have a vacation.

Bonnie and Clyde.

Sam and Ainsley. Riding off into the…


	33. xxxiii

A/N: Oh my God! Me? On time with an entry? Get ready for Apocalypse. (Although not in the X-Men movie...grumble) Enjoy! These on-time entries don't come by often.

* * *

_xxxiii. Too Much_

He uses that tone with her, the one she used to hear from her father, and she's too sick and tired of him right now. She takes a breath, runs her hand through her hair, and filters him out like she used to do to her parents. Except he knows. He figures it out. He's angry and she's angry, and he yells something at her. She throws her stuff into a duffel bag and walks out to her car. He's throwing apologies at her, trying to fix things again. She blinks back her tears and drives. She doesn't look back.


	34. xxxiv

A/N: Sorry for the wait. I am going to finish this--it's a personal goal. But with school, graduation projects, college applications...it'll be a little hectic. It WILL get done, though. Have no fear. Here are three installments.

* * *

_xxxiv. Not Enough_

She's cooking in the kitchen, stirring the potful of spaghetti sauce. He walks in carefree, wrapping his arms around her. She chuckles, and prompts him to taste, placing the wooden spoon by his mouth.

"What do you think?"

He smacks his lips for a bit. "Too much pepper, not enough oregano." She smirks.

"You're wrong."

"What was the point in asking me?" Before she has time to laugh, there's a loud sound, and they're both on the floor, the sauce still bubbling.

He's on the floor.

And there's blood. Not enough, she thinks, crying. Time. Blood. Life. Not enough…everything.


	35. xxxv

_xxxv. Sixth Sense  
_

* * *

He can feel it when she steps in the room. It becomes statically charged, like North Carolina is this weird electrical state with currents from Mars or something. He rolls his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose. Big Block of Cheese Day and sleep deprivation do not go together. At all. He's decided. And he's going to petition the President to make that illegal or something. Yeah. Sure. Whatever.

Except then he hears it. Faintly. The softened noise of her heels against the carpet.

Her arms slide around him, hair in his face, and she smiles. "Working hard?"


	36. xxxvi

_xxxvi. Smell  
_

* * *

He steps into the room. She can hear the clicking.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

And then he stops. She can see him in her head, lifting his nose to the air like Lassie.

One tentative sniff.

Then another.

This never failed. At all. Not for her grandmother, her mother…pretty much every female on that side of the family. She grins at the thought. Poor Sam. You didn't know what you were getting into, did you?

The oven beeps.

He steps into the kitchen, his shoes squeaking against the tile.

"Ainsley, what is that?"

She opens the oven door. "Peach cobbler."


	37. xxxvii

_xxxvii. Sound_

"Ainsley?" he asks. You can kind of sense an undertone of fear. "What are we doing here?" You giggle.

"Sam, I played basketball with you, even though I told you for hours that I was bad at it. So now, you get to see my end of the fence."

"…your end of the fence?"

"You know what I mean. Come here." You pick up the revolver, and fire off a few shots at the paper target, relishing the sound. "Want to try?"

He picks it up and fires off a round with shaky hands. You kiss him and smile. "Good."


	38. xxxviii

_xxxviii. Touch_

Laurie. Mallory. Ainsley. Like a little boy playing with his sister's dolls, he broke them. All of them. And himself in the process. He sits on the stoop of his apartment building, breathing in the chilled December air, allowing it to caress his throat. The stars sparkle above him.

_They all run away from you. _

It all started with his father. And now he can't get them to stop running. He holds the beer bottle by its neck, and drinks. He stole bits and pieces of them until they all left. And no amount of alcohol can make him forget.


	39. xxxix

_xxxix. Taste_

She licks her lips, tipping her head at him in challenge. Lick the hand. Salt. She downs the drink, immediately biting into the lime. A bit of the juice escapes her lips and dribbles down her chin. She wipes at it, and raises an eyebrow in questioning.

"What are you waiting for?" He smiles and takes his shot.

Neither of them surrender.

It's her turn again, and she goes through the process, quickly squelching the lime between her teeth. She sets the rind down, and his lips are upon hers, and she tastes lime and sweetness. He leaves her dizzy.


	40. xl

_xl. Sight_

She walks into his office, confident and strong in her stride. Little diamond earrings dangle off of her ears, and she's dressed in a black dress that hugs all of her curves, her hair a golden curtain lying against her bare shoulders.

"Sam? Honey?" He mumbles something, typing away at his laptop. "We have to go."

"Yeah…"

She takes his face in her hands, and smiles at him. "You look like hell." A quick kiss. She walks towards the door, and smiles at him. "We're going to be late."

He looks up at her, and he almost forgets to breathe.


	41. xli

_xli. Shapes_

She will never travel by car with Sam Seaborn ever again.

Standing outside in the cold, as white flakes tumble from the sky, she casts him a pointed glance. She unfolds the map and sets it on the hood of the car. "You see, Sam," she says, condescension escaping her, despite her best efforts. "There are these shapes on this paper…and it tells people like us where to go!" He rolls his eyes, refolds it, and hands it to her.

On the road again, she stares out the window and rolls her eyes. _Celestial navigation._

_Galileo, Copernicus, the highway? Stupid._


	42. xlii

_xlii. Triangle_

He sits at the bar with Josh, both of them brooding, nursing their drinks between their hands. Josh looks at him, and he stares into the depth of his eyes. Here they are, two best friends, too lost to do anything but try and figure out what to do next.

He remembers the scene. She's crying, her hair askew, apologies flying from her lips, and all he can feel is his heart crumbling. He slams the door as he leaves.

He raises his glass in an ironic gesture. "To Cliff Calley," he says, emotionally. "The man who ruined our lives."


	43. xliii

_xliii. Square_

He stares intently at it, and she thinks he looks like a five-year-old. His pen traces the lines he just drew in pencil, and half an hour later, he presents her with a rectangular sheet of paper. She smiles.

"Sam?"

He stands, looking nervous. "What do you think? It's the first frame."

"You did this instead of writing the President's speech?" He nods. "You're being serious about this?" He nods again. "Sam…"

"I know," he says, interrupting. "I need colored pencils. But still…what do you think?"

"It's about the Pilgrims."

"Yeah."

"Pilgrims in spandex." He nods again. "Saving the world."


	44. xliv

_xliv. Circle_

"What's the hold up here?" a man yells.

She cries softly, feeling the tug on her ribs with every breath. The blood trickles from her forehead and she tries to look over. She can't see him, but she can hear his labored breathing. She moves her left hand, ignoring the pain that shoots up her arm, and places it atop of his.

The paramedic whispers comforting words to her as they place her on the stretcher. She watches them stop their efforts.

"Please, please," she cries, desperate.

She leaves the accident with a few stitches. He doesn't leave at all.


	45. xlv

_xlv. Moon _

They're in North Carolina, visiting her family, when she finds out. He smiles at her childlike enthusiasm.

"Sam Seaborn, it's a blue moon, and I'm not going to have you spoil it for me." She makes sandwiches, and packs a picnic basket.

They sit and enjoy the glow of the moon in contrast to the dark of the night. He kisses her and calls her his Ophelia. She smiles, and leans back against him, staring up at the stars.

"Isn't this beautiful?" He opts to forgo the cliché, and shakes his head.

At her puzzled look, he replies, "It's perfect."


	46. xlvi

_xlvi. Star _

_He remembers wishing on a star for an angel once._

She walks into his office dressed in something clearly designed to make him lose his mind. "Sam," she calls. She smiles and goes to his desk. "It's Christmas Eve. Come on!"

"The government doesn't stop working on Christmas," he recites.

She sits on his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. She's clearly trying to kill him. She kisses him, her hands wrapping in his hair.

A throat clears, and they pull apart to face Toby.

"Sam." He taps on the doorframe. "Last I checked, this is still my office."


	47. xlvii

_xlvii. Heart _

She wakes up and, feeling the onset of a migraine, immediately pinches the bridge of her nose. Ugh. Today is it. The day of all days. The most horrific thing of them all. And the worst part? You have to go to the White House and deal with whiny Congressmen. You—the sole Republican in a Democratic white house. And the worst part? Lionel Tribbey is quite possibly the scariest man alive, and he's your boss.

Another day in the Steam Pipe Trunk Distribution Venue.

She arrives to find little candy hearts on her desk.

My. Favorite. Republican.

She laughs.


	48. xlviii

_xlviii. Diamond_

She places a forkful of lo mein into her mouth. "Well, you know that the diamond is a symbol for everything that is good in pretty much every civilization," she mumbles around her food.

He quirks up an eyebrow, smirking, his legs propped up against a chair. "Really?"

"Comfy?" He nods, and she rolls her eyes. "Yeah, Sam. Really."

"So why does this explain your dislike for the stone?"

She shrugged. "It's overpublicized. I'd like something less popular. I've always been for the underdog." He laughs, and she steals his food.

Eighteen months later, he proposes with a sapphire ring.


	49. xlix

_lxix. Club_

She hums impatiently. He sighs, and turns to look at her over his shoulder. She looks very in her element now, he thinks. A white sweater around her neck, pastel colors, a pair of sunglasses pushed up onto her hair.

"Sam, seriously, are you going to stare at me all day?"

He raises it, and lowers it again. And raises and lowers. She steps over there and wrenches it from his hands, nudging him off to the side subtly. She swings, and he sees the golf ball fly.

"For God's sake, how long does it take to hit a ball?"


	50. l

A/N: Yay! We're halfway through, after what seems like the longest time ever. So, I know it's hard to tell, but since I'm using lower-case letters in portraying the roman numerals, that's an L, which means 50. YAY, 50!

* * *

_l. Spade_

He arrives at Donna's roommate's friend's party because Josh is stupid and doesn't want to be alone. He's wearing his father's old trenchcoat with a hat he found in a thrift store. Josh, dressed like a cowboy, looks at him, and lifts an eyebrow. "What are you supposed to be?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Sam Spade." Josh looks clueless. Donna turns around, dressed like an angel (literally), her arm looped through another's. Sam's eyes widen. "Ainsley."

She flutters dramatically, flicking open her fan with a flourish. She smiles. "Scarlett," she says with an exaggerated Southern drawl. "Scarlett O' Hara, sir."


End file.
